Chasin'the Leaves On An R75/6 Bmw

Chasin’The Leaves On An R75/6 BMW

JUST PASSIN'THROUGH...

D. Randy Riggs

THE IDEA HAD flashed through my mind late last year as I drove to the funeral of a very special lady in the East. “Brownie” was her name, and the day was one of my saddest. But I knew she’d rather have me thinking happy thoughts than miserable ones, and that’s when it hit me. It was November, but one of those very special days when the sun is bright and the air is warm. Indian summer in the northern New Jersey mountains got me to thinking what a perfect day it was for a motorcycle ride. And having been born and raised in the East, California hadn’t begun to wipe out the memories of the seasonal changes; the weather mixes that are non-existent in the Coastal Southwest. I was too late for the best part of fall, but I knew then that October would come again and I would be there to greet it. On a motorcycle.

The thought never really left my mind all year, and when the month drew near I contacted Butler & Smith, the people who import the BMW into the U.S. Would it be possible for me to pick up a 1975 model R75/6 at the Norwood, N.J., headquarters for a touring trip of the Northeast? “Yes it would,” they said. “And, oh, any objections to having us fit it with our new MK-VI fairing and Krauser saddlebags?” Heck, you took the words right out of my mouth.

Since I wanted to hit the area when Ma Nature painted the leaves with the brightest colors on her palette, timing would be critical. When the leaves decide to change, they do so quickly. The best period might only last a week. I kept calling friends and relatives back there for the latest updates on the conditions, finally heading East the day after the Ontario road race.

Flying into Philadelphia I kept peering out at the landscape as the DC-8 made its approach. Was I too late? It didn’t look it.

At Norwood the 750 sat waiting. Black too. My favorite color on a BMW. But I’m not alone; about 60 percent of the BMW models sold in the U.S. are delivered in Henry Ford’s favorite shade. And this was a 1975 model, so I was anxious to see what had been “improved.” Things don’t seem to “change” from year to year on the BeeEmsJust “improve.”

Right off I noticed new handlebar switches and different seat upholstery; flat black turn indicators too. “What else?” I said. They pointed out the remainder of the differences like “click” action fuel petcocks (introduced in mid-‘74) a drilled disc front brake, new brake and clutch levers, ignition switch with “marked” positions and the lack of a kickstart mechanism. “Anything else?”

“Aw, just a bigger starter motor and stronger electrics.”

“Sounds just fine. See ya in a fortnight. Ciao...er...I mean auf Wiedersehen ...heh, heh...bye.”

I went outside to load the machine. Though I travel as light as possible, it seemed as though I had too much to carry for my intended two-week excursion. I was concerned whether I’d have enough room, but I shouldn’t have given it a second thought. The Krauser “Deluxe” Number 272 saddlebags swallowed everything up and had room for more.

The Krauser bags are the absolute best I’ve ever used, but, for $265, they should be. Included with the bags are chrome brackets and a luggage rack that bolt to the machine in minutes. The bags themselves snap on and off in a second with a push-button release mechanism. They’re waterproof, lightweight, look like they belong on the bike and can be used as regular luggage. The only bad feature I could find was the lack of a lock to secure them to the machine. As a result I always parked where the BeeEm would be in my sight. Loaded to full capacity they hold 22 lb. each and there’s even enough room in one for a full coverage helmet. Look for the Krauser bags at any BMW dealer. They’re the answer.

Worrying about packing special tools is the last thing a BMW owner ever does and I didn’t either. Underneath the lockable, flip-up seat sits a removable tray containing a full complement of high quality tools; if you can’t fix it with any of these, then you couldn’t fix it at home in your own garage.

Along with a particularly good owner’s manual, there’s a service directory for BMW dealers all over the world, tire pump, patch kit and enough wrenches to turn every nut and bolt on the entire machine. And, should you get your hands dirty, there’s even a rag emblazoned with the letters, BMW, to wipe your hands on. What more could a rider ask for? Even the centerstand allows the front or rear wheel to be removed with no outside help in case of a flat or something equally awful.

The weather was perfect that particular day, but it was getting late and I didn’t want to be riding much past dark. In October an Eastern night can get downright cold, and I didn’t want to ride past all that dynamite scenery in the black of night. I stuffed my maps of the Northeast states into one of the fairing’s storage compartments and checked out the new handlebar switches.

Appearance wise, I think BMW has hit the nail on the head. These are without a doubt the most unobtrusive and attractive control devices I’ve ever seen on a motorcycle. The left side controls horn and lighting. The horn (a loud one), operates with the touch of the upper left rocker switch; the lower switch (rocker type) controls high and low beam lighting, as well as the high beam flasher for saying “hi” to other BMW riders. A day-glo colored switch turns the lights to “parking” or “running” position. All operate easily within reach of the thumb. Terrific.

On the right side, the layout is identical, but the day-glo switch is an emergency kill button, and the rocker switches operate the starter motor and turn indicators. All are clearly labeled, but there may be one flaw and that lies with the turn indicator switch.

The switch operates in an up or down manner, rather than side to side. So the rider has to memorize and get used to “up” meaning a left turn and “down” meaning a right turn. In actual practice it’s confusing until it seats in your memory.

With the choke full-on, the 750 fired instantly; as I let it warm up some, I noticed that it had only been ridden four miles. “Whoops, this thing’s brand new...better find out about break-in.” They almost laughed when I asked. “Just run it and don’t worry.” Nothing to worry about seemed to be the story of this motorcycle’s life. So I didn’t. And I rode away.

Smells of fall were in the air that day as 1 motored through small towns that’d seen many more seasons than I. Work day traffic crawled slowly in places; most of the vehicles’ occupants eyed the BeeEm with curiosity. Maybe it was the California plates, perhaps just the gleaming black beauty of the new machine. But I’m sure there was some envy for anybody riding a motorcycle on such an extraordinary afternoon. Even a milktoast would have forsaken his car.

I broke loose from the 5:30 traffic when a few of the towns thinned out and many of the commuters reached their destinations and after-work gin and tonics. Big yellow school buses trundled by on occasion, lightly loaded with tired athletes fresh from their workouts. Once in awhile 1 could smell good things cooking for dinner; an eager paper boy tried to pace the BeeEm and I on his MX-style bicycle, but I lost him when his concentration faltered and he had to aim an Evening Telegram up someone’s driveway. He skidded out of sight in my rear view mirror.

Big orange pumpkins were turning up on porches here and there. Stores had specials on Halloween candy. Grotesque masks hung in five and dime windows. It wasn’t hard to tell that summer was over.

After getting lost once or twice, I finally got headed in the right direction and arrived at the night’s destination. Kittatinny Lake...late. It was very cold and crisp, and all my warm clothing was packed in the bags, so I was also cold and crisp. My favorite aunt and uncle looked surprised when I removed my helmet; it was their house where I’d be staying for a few days.

“You didn’t have all that hair and the beard the last time I saw you,” my aunt said, still looking somewhat shocked.

“And I wasn’t this cold,” I replied, trying to bend my legs into a walking position.

When you mention the state of New Jersey to a Californian who has never seen the place, or seen only Hoboken from a turnpike bridge, he is very unenthusiastic about it. “Why on earth would you want to go thereV’ is the normal reaction. But these geeks have never learned that Jersey got its nickname, “The Garden State,” for a reason. The next day, after a good night’s rest and thaw-out, I did some exploring through some of the prettiest parts of northwestern Sussex County, in perfect fall weather.

The BMW had no objections whatsoever to the winding, sometimes bumpy roads of the Kittatinny Mountains. The front forks would just “whoosh” up the bad holes and glass over the little ones, like a baker smoothing the icing on a birthday cake. Some people criticize the softness, but on a touring machine it’s the ultimate. Some of the sharp dips in the road were fun to run through fast, feeling the G-forces turn the pit of my stomach hollow for just an instant.

Only a few weeks earlier I had spent some time on an R90/6, but the 750 felt much smoother. It hummed along quietly, seeming to enjoy the ride almost as much as 1 was. I stopped for a bit by the Dingman’s Ferry Bridge crossing the Delaware river, and I listened as the cars rattled the planks of the bridge’s floor. They sure don’t build bridges like that anymore.

The BMW rattled the planks, too, and on the Pennsylvania side of the structure there’s an old toll building with a roof covering the road. There wasn’t a troll in sight. A lady walked out as I approached and readied her change pouch for my quarter. “You’ve picked a lovely day for a ride,” she greeted me.

“You said it,” 1 answered, as 1 ka-klunked the BeeEm back into first and pulled away, feeling instantly superb. It was one of the most pleasant feelings I had had in some time, because everything was just...well, right. It made me think of a song by Elton John with the exact title tor what I was feeling then...“Harmony”, and the words... Harmony and me We ’re pretty good company,

Looking for an island In our boat upon the sea.

Harmony, gee I really love you And I want to love you forever And dream of the never, never, never leaving harmony... the words were just perfect.

Autumn colors were at their peak; my timing had been lucky. In the Wallpac Valley I noticed many homes deserted and boarded up...or broken up. There must have been a reason for it, so I asked. The government and its infamous Army Corps of Engineers had decided several years ago that they wanted to build a dam and flood the Delaware river into the Valley. For their usual reasons. But, thank goodness, the public started giving them lots of flak about the project and it doesn’t look favorable at this point for the dam. But at the same time the government decided to make a large portion of the area a recreational zone, so many of the people had to move out just the same. It was depressing to think about, but then again, it would keep out land developers and real estaters. Those are the guys who could turn the world into a wallto-wall subdivision overnight if you let ‘em.

In a few days I had to move on to points north, so it meant saying goodbye to several new friends...and to the perfect weather I had been enjoying. They wished me well, and offered warnings about the ticket happy troopers turned tax collectors enforcing the 55-mph speed prohibition.

1 tried to go 55 for a bit, but on two-lane roads I was holding up traffic and on thruways most cars and trucks were whizzing past 20 mph faster. So I joined ‘em. Even the 750 seemed happier. I sure was.

The hardest thing about touring in the East is that there is so much to see in a compact area. I could spend a month exploring the towns nestled along the Delaware River’s edge and not begin to see it all. Towns like New Hope, Washington’s Crossing, Lumberville, Yardley, Milford; every one full of history. But I was already into upstate New York, nearing Middletown on the Interstate, heading for Providence, R.I.

Seating position on the 750 was just right with the fairing in place, fairly straight up and erect. But take that fairing off and Ed much rather have the bars that come on the R90 Sport in order to stay down out of the wind. I had jacked the rear shocks up to their stiftest position back at Butler & Smith, and now at 70 mph I was playing with the three-position steering damper, except that I couldn’t seem to rotate the knob. “Strange,” I thought, and I pulled into a rest area to have a look.

It was an easy fix. One of the hose clamps used to hold the MK-VI Butler & Smith fairing in place had been positioned to interfere with the operation and arc of the damper. I loosened the clamp and rotated it out of the way; then the damper worked fine. I kept it in the number two position on the higher speed roads.

Sidewinds were very strong as I crossed the Hudson River atop a spectacular bridge near Peekskill, my run through Connecticut was short and to the point. It was beginning to rain. When my throttle hand got tired of keeping a twist on the grip, I screwed down the throttle stop screw and let it do the work.

The rain stopped, but it remained dismal. In some areas the leaves had not yet turned; in others they were long past their brightest stages.

I was able to travel 170 to 190 miles on the 4.75-gal. fuel tank before it went on reserve; the 750 was averaging more than 50 mpg. Somewhere in Rhode Island I stopped to stretch my muscles, and I was surprised to notice that the rear wheel was getting messy with oil. The drain plug on the rear drive was dripping; it lost a teaspoonful as I sat there and watched. I tried to tighten the plug but it was already plenty snug enough. “Hmmm, the first BMW I’ve ever seen leak a drop of oil.” SomeW gasket compound later cured the problem.

Before I headed to Maine I spent a few days with photographer Gene Dwiggins and his wife Margie in the city of Providence. They belong to the Rhody Rovers MC, and it was interesting to hear how off-road riding is in this part of the U.S. And Margie cooks good too.

I don’t think they were anxious to send me off into the pouring wetness, but I really had to get going and I prepared for the worst.

I snapped on the Vetter “Hippo Hands” I had brought along, jumped into everything warm I had and covered it all with my Full-Bore riding suit. “Let’s go BMW...and see how you like the rain.”

It was awful, but I was staying dry. The fairing kept much of the blast of rain off, but it was coming down so hard that some cars had even pulled off the side of the road. My face shield would fog up every few minutes, so I tried keeping it open about an inch. That cured the fogging, but the rain dripping off my nose tickled. Which was the lesser of two evils I never decided.

I loved watching people in cars staring at me; I had kept it to 55 in the rain, but they kept zooming past. I thought, “Bet I’m the only person in Massachusetts on a motorcycle right now.” I was wrong. A few minutes later I heard this vroooom sound and I looked over and here was this dude on a Moto Guzzi, with a sidecar no less, looking for all the world like he was really digging on the rain. We waved very courageous waves, like, we were the only two nuts with enough guts to be out in this stuff...like being brothers. He eventually peeled down an off-ramp and that was the last motorcyclist I was to see for some time.

When J got to Maine it was still raining and cold, but the leaves were pretty in spite of it. I got on the Maine Turnpike and a sign greeted me. “Welcome To Maine,” it said. “Speed Limits Strictly Enforced. Patrolled By Marked And Unmarked Cars, Aircraft, Radar In Use. Your Cooperation Is Appreciated.” Thanks Mr. Big Brother, for the warm welcome. I was intimidated for a few miles, until the trucks rolled by at 80. I screwed it on too. To hell with 1984.

At Augusta I picked up a two-lane road again and headed for the coast. When I got to Belfast the rain had finally stopped, but I was only a few miles from Searsport, where I had planned to stay and see some old friends..

Maine is a state like no other, very busy with tourists in the summer, but seemingly deserted in the off-season. My old friend Harry Gray used to tell me in his wonderful Maine accent, “We’ve only got two seasons up here...July and Winter.” And he’s right. I spent some time with Harry the following day, and he told me about the motorcycles he used to ride...a Pope, Henderson, Harley, a couple of Indians, and he told me about the time his wife Jessie sold his last Harley when he was out to sea on an oil tanker. “I was sure fit to be tied when I found that out.”

We bid our goodbyes and he told me, “If I was a few years younger I’d be going with you.” I knew he wasn’t kidding.

A cold front had moved into the New England states and though it was clear and sunny, it was bitter cold and windy. Dry leaves scampered about in the rushes of the breeze, and the limbs creaked in the trees, as if to tell us winter was on its way. The frost had come sharp and quick as driven nails, the leaves had turned their blazing reds, and their bright yellows...and now many were dry and brown and dead. Autumn can be a sad time, and you know it’s autumn because the hunters are walking in the woods and fields, their hounds barking their presence; cider presses are getting a workout, the corn is shocked, fields are mown, the earth is waiting, preparation for winter goes on in earnest. October is the season for returning...and I have. But now it’s time to head the BMW back south down the coast...my trip was getting short. My stomach growled, so I turned into the parking lot of a cozy-looking diner.

A stack of Republican Journals sat at one end of the counter and the music box had an interesting blend of rock and country choices. But the waitress was into Elton John and that’s what she kept playing over and over with the quarters she’d earned that morning. I didn’t mind. She asked me about the BMW and said she wished she could take a ride like that someday. “A lot of people tell me that,” I said.

The meal was great and so was the coffee, but as I was about to get up and pay the check, the little dear played “Harmony.” She filled my cup one last time as I listened, and I was in the perfect mood for the final leg of my trip.

Down US 1 the BeeEm purred, through the breeze off the Penobscot Bay, coastal Maine smiling back at us. I crossed a bridge over what the sign told me was the Great Brook, and it made me smile. Towns are just the way they appear in all the pictures you’ve seen and being “Down East” is a perfect way to use up a ride.

It got colder, and I stopped in the parking lot of “Bernard Nelson, Useful Cars,” to slip on my warmest gloves. The end of the trip was fast approaching, almost time to stop all this gazing and smelling and listening, and almost time to give up this wonderful motorcycle. I followed all the signs that read, “South” and, in time, it was over.

But it never really hit me until I was aboard the jet, watching Philadelphia, Baltimore and Washington slip under our wing, seeing the lights of the Eastern Seaboard blend into the darkness behind us. That’s when I was sad...because it was over.

R75/6 BMW

$3475